Noumenon Infinity Read online

  Oh, yes. Because open doors are invitations. “You’re not making this any better.”

  “Why Dubai?”

  The non sequitur was Kaufman’s favorite. Easy to avoid an apology or admission of fault if you’re just not talking about that subject anymore.

  The guest chair groaned in relief as he stood to gaze out the window. “I mean, I know why they wanted you. After the best entertainment and the best restaurants and the best of every other pleasure-fare to be found, the emirate decided it wanted the best labs as well. Being number one in science and industry sounds dirty, but science and entertainment? Especially with the whole world’s gaze focused on the stars? Why not start up another shining desert oasis topped with glass and metal? Yes, that all makes sense.

  “But why are you here?” He turned back to her, hands entwined over his belly. “You didn’t leave the States because of me, did you?”

  “Bah! What?” Vanhi made no attempt to contain her surprised laughter. “No. No, you narcissist. I came here for exactly the reasons you said—it’s the best. I’m funded from now until the end of Kali Yuga. I get every piece of equipment I ask for—on rush. Every physicist and engineer on the planet wants to work here.”

  “Then why are all the top people going off-world?”

  “What are you . . . ?” The Planet United Missions? What did that have to do with her? “They’re not. Most of those are clones—”

  “Why aren’t you in charge of a mission?”

  She took a deep breath.

  He was kidding, right?

  Oh, no—maybe he wasn’t.

  She’d always feared this day would come. When a man with power starts losing his marbles, things go downhill quickly. “Uh, because I was, what, ten when the missions were assigned?”

  I was a little girl still trying to learn an American accent so those stupid white girls in Mrs. Engle’s class would leave me alone.

  I didn’t know what Newton’s Laws were then, but he really thinks the Planet United Consortium should have come knocking?

  “That’s the problem with a lot of these long-lived projects. Better techniques, better people, better tools come along, but we don’t dare change course. I don’t mean you should have had one then.

  “I mean you should have one now.”

  He inched around her to pick up the soiled holoflex-sheet by the corner. The tea stain looked like an ink-blot. “What you’ve discovered, don’t you see how big it is? Of course you do, of course. But everyone should be made to understand. If we can travel through any of these new SDs, that could put more than a few solar systems within reach. We could have Andromeda. We could have every single light in the sky.”

  “I know,” she said, gingerly taking the sheet back. “But what does that have to do with the current missions? They are what they are. The money’s already spent, the resources already allocated. You’re not going to convince anyone to add on a thirteenth convoy. And besides, we can study the subdimensions right here on Earth—why would I need an off-world mission?”

  “Because the chicken-shit, tiptoeing simulation crap we used to do at U of O is a farce.”

  “I spent a lot of hours on that ‘farce,’” she spat. She couldn’t believe she had to deal with this right now. Now? Well, ever, really. Melodramatic, self-absorbed—“My entire career is based on the work I did on that engine.”

  “But how much more would you know, how much more could you have achieved, if you’d been allowed to turn that engine on? To have it sink into the SD like it was meant to. Over and over again.”

  “That would have been too dangerous. No university in their right mind would have—”

  “Exactly. You don’t develop your nukes and test your nukes on the same ground. Even Oppenheimer knew that.”

  “Yes, even Oppenheimer,” she scoffed. He tried to continue, but she held up a finger. She shook it when he persisted. “If we’re going to continue this I’d rather do it down in the cafeteria. It’s three in the morning and I’m starving. When did you fly in? It’s what, an eleven-hour difference between here and Oregon?”

  “I could eat,” he said with a nod. “But don’t think shoveling a spoonful of whatever the local fare is down my gullet is going to shut me up.”

  “Believe me,” she said, grabbing her lanyard with its ID and card key from where it hung on a hook near the window. “I gave up on that pipe dream long ago.” She opened the door before promptly shutting it again. Returning to her desk, she shuffled through various sheets and papers until she’d uncovered an out-of-date smartphone.

  “Won’t your chip catch any messages?” Kaufman asked.

  “Hey, C, do me a favor?” she asked the screen as it winked awake.

  “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”

  Vanhi smiled—she’d found the “sir” address endearing and had asked the PA to keep it after the initial download.

  “Dear god.” Kaufman grimaced at the automated voice. “I thought for sure you would have gotten rid of that thing years ago.”

  Thought I got rid of you years ago, she thought, while outwardly ignoring him. “C, What’s the bao bun situation downstairs?”

  “Pork and veggie, fifteen minutes old.”

  “Perfect, thanks.”

  “Why don’t you join us in the twenty-second century and toss out that creepy thing?” Kaufman asked, holding the door open.

  “It was a present,” she said, scooting by him. “You know, from that convoy lead you insulted?”

  As far as cafeterias went, the International Lab for Multi-Dimensional Research had the very best. It employed two Michelin-star chefs, and you could get almost anything you liked from anywhere in the world at any time you wanted it. Normally filled to the brim with diners, it had been mostly quiet over the past few weeks for the holy month, with the chefs still cooking, but keeping the shades on the storefronts drawn and delivering lunches to closed-off offices.

  Vanhi had taken her dinner at her desk out of respect for her fasting coworkers. But now that it was unquestionably after sundown, she was ready to stretch her legs and get a bite out in the wide openness of the cafeteria’s courtyard.

  The aroma of sweet-spiced bao buns made her mouth water as soon as the late-night cook opened the side door to his shop. He piled a plate high for her, handed her two drinks, and wished her a reflective evening.

  Kaufman settled for, of all things, a salad. Not a cold noodle salad or anything with pickled roots of any kind, of course. Nothing with spice. Nothing with a piece of greenery he didn’t recognize.

  Two candied dates adorned the brim of his plate. He flicked them off.

  “Here, try this.” Vanhi sat one of the drinks in front of him. It was deep purple, with a handful of somethings—pale and bead-like—floating near the top.

  “What is it?”

  “Jellab. In case you didn’t realize, you came in the middle of Ramadan. There are coolers full of this on every floor. Not everyone partakes, of course, but it’s available.”

  He gazed at her blankly.

  “All of my Muslim colleagues are fasting during daylight hours. This is a favorite for keeping up strength. Go on, it’s sweet.”

  “What’s floating in it?”

  “Pine nuts.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  “Oh, no you don’t.” She pushed it closer to him. “You don’t get to preach at me about boldly going and all that if you won’t even try a harmless little drink.”

  The cafeteria sat on the ground floor of the seven-story building, right at the base of the main escalators. Its long communal tables were easily visible from the balconies lining the inside of all floors, and during the day sunbeams streamed through the angled skylights to nurture the half-dozen in-ground trees dotting the public space.

  The cafeteria was largely empty. The early hour meant the sundown feasts were long over, though many people would be getting up soon to prepare a hearty meal before sunrise.

  Still, three women occupied a nea
rby table, two in hijab and one with her hair in a bun, all dressed in lab coats. They eyed Kaufman with suppressed smirks as he lifted the glass of jellab to his lips, a preemptive expression of distaste furrowing his brow.

  He took a dainty sip, smacking his lips loudly. “It is sweet,” he agreed, taking a gulp. “What is that? Grapes and—?”

  “Rose water.”

  He took another long gulp. “Could do without the nuts, though.”

  “Couldn’t we all,” Vanhi said under her breath, slicing into the doughy, steamed deliciousness before her. “All right, so you were auspiciously comparing SD drives to warheads . . .”

  “Only in that we don’t test them where we make them. Because it’s too dangerous. How many certifications did the drives need in space before anyone agreed to put them in ships?”

  “A lot. Still looking for your point here.”

  “Your research could be accelerated by orders of magnitude if you were allowed to take it off-planet. But the only player in the big-budget space game is the consortium. It’s the P.U.M.s or nothing.” He pushed his jellab to the side, leaning over his salad conspiratorially. “What if I could get you a mission?”

  “There are twelve missions,” she said pointedly between bites. “That’s it. They take up the entire world’s budget for deep-space travel. Where are they going to scrape up another, what, forty-five trillion for a thirteenth trip? Besides, let’s say you’re right, and that moving SD research into space for the sake of safety means we advance our understanding of the subdimensions by decades. We don’t need to leave the solar system to do it. And that’s the point of the P.U.M.s.”

  “Your research could render the Planet United Missions obsolete,” he insisted. “Imagine this—which convoy is it—nine, I think?—that’s on its way to study Sagittarius A-Star. Imagine they arrive there to find a future convoy, built a hundred years from now, has gotten there first, thanks to your work. Imagine how much more knowledge we could amass about our universe because we can simply travel faster. Study sooner. We’re talking the difference between a wagon train and a bullet train. If you have enough resources, I bet within your lifetime we’ll find—and be able to use—SDs that sweep us along at n-to-the-second or n-to-the-tenth or n-to-the-nth-power faster than our current travel SD.”

  The thought should have excited her, invigorated her. But for some reason it made her stomach turn. She wanted to advance, to help mankind, to push the limits of known science, but the idea of sending all those people into space only to make them obsolete . . .

  She dropped her fork, wiping her hands against her thighs. “Is this your pitch to the consortium? Give her a convoy and watch how fast she proves your resources wasted on these other missions?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good. For a second there it really sounded like you thought the consortium would thank you for the slap in the face and ask for another.”

  Kaufman stabbed ruthlessly at his iceberg lettuce. “Definitely not. Especially since I wouldn’t be asking them to add on a thirteenth mission.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’d be asking them to cancel one of the current missions.”

  Vanhi took a cleansing breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them and did not wake up at her desk, she drank half her jellab in one go, barely blinking an eye as the pine nuts went down whole. When she had finally composed herself, she said, “I can’t believe you flew halfway around the world—unannounced—to bother me with this nonsense. They aren’t going to cancel a current mission—not for anything. Do you understand what that would mean? How many dollars would be wasted? The outrage in the scientific community alone is enough to keep all the cogs turning, nevermind the flapping lips of all those politicians who keep crunching the numbers, talking about how much food one mission could buy or how many jet planes.”

  Dr. Kaufman was clearly unimpressed by her protest. “Are you done?”

  Glaring, she took another bite of her bun.

  “I have it on good authority that one of the missions—yes, beloved as it is—isn’t stacking up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a possibility the original research that earned it a convoy not only wasn’t so original, it wasn’t so sound.”

  She understood where he was going with this, but she wanted to hear him say it.

  “The results were tampered with, Kapoor. The research was padded.”

  “I thought all of the proposals were independently vetted.”

  “You thought—you and every other sucker who’s never considered bribing anyone. Hush money exchanged hands.”

  Academic dishonesty was not an arena any scientist worth their salt wanted to tread into, from any angle. “Now I for sure don’t want to touch this idea of yours with a ten-foot pole.”

  “You don’t even want to know which convoy it is?”

  “Nope.”

  He pushed his now-empty plate—a feat, considering how much gabbing he’d done—aside and put his hands on the table, making chopping motions every other word. “I have no plans to make the bribes public. No one outside of the consortium members I plan on approaching—along with you and me and the devil who did it—will need to know why that mission got dropped and yours became the new poster child. The one thing these P.U.M.s are riding on is public approval. As soon as we start revealing even a hint of corruption, people’s opinions go down, the usefulness of space travel comes into question, and those number-crunching politicians gain a little extra traction.

  “And what would you prefer, really? A mission based on lies, on the barest of research going out into the stars to waste life upon life for next to no scientific gain? Or, would you rather humans do their thing. That we try to one-up ourselves. That we make it our goal to ensure these deep-space missions grow. That we make the travel faster, cheaper, safer. A space race against ourselves is something to root for. You know it is.”

  Two words rattled through Vanhi’s mind. Two words she absolutely hated whenever they cropped up. Two words that meant she was sliding down someone else’s rabbit hole with no visible daylight on the other side.

  He’s right.

  “Okay,” she said after a long pause. “I don’t want to see a mission go to waste. Not if it doesn’t have to. I’m in.”

  He raised his jellab. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  September 12, 2116

  “You appear nervous. I think it would be more effective if you appeared not nervous,” C said.

  The third-floor public bathroom in the consortium office was freaking freezing, and the sink refused to give hot water. In addition, the battle between paper towels and hand dryers still raged on, and seeing how this particular model of Strongblow (no, really) had an “Out-of-Order, sorry :( ” sign taped to it, Vanhi was firmly on Team Paper.

  She settled for flicking her hands over the sink basin instead of wiping them on her business jacket. On the counter, C peeked out of her open purse like one of those pocket dogs rich girls carried. The light near its camera flashed green.

  “I hadn’t considered that,” she said sarcastically. “Don’t look nervous, got it. Anything else?”

  “Your shoe is untied.”

  She glanced down, a skeptical eyebrow raised. “I’m wearing pumps. Oh, was that a joke?”

  “Humor eases tension and is often used to suppress anxieties. If that witticism was not sufficiently alleviating I can find another one.”

  She pushed the phone back into its pocket and slung the strap over her shoulder. “I’m good, thank you. Sleep now, C.”

  Shoving through the swinging door, she stopped dead and was nearly smacked in the face by the springback. In the hall, outside the presentation room, sat Dr. Kaufman. But he wasn’t alone. A young man in an overly baggy suit—an aide, maybe, or an intern—stood nearby, stopped by Kaufman’s grip on the bottom of the boy’s jacket. The kid looked nervous, stack of files in hand, body taut like he wanted to run away. Kaufman’s hold was
n’t restrictive, just . . . intrusive.

  Calmly, Kaufman spoke in low tones, nodding regularly while the young man listened.

  After a moment, Kaufman pulled a wad of bills out of his breast pocket. The aide glanced furtively over his shoulder, this way and that, before snapping up the cash and handing Dr. Kaufman a folder from his stack.

  With a flourished lick of the thumb, Kaufman began flipping through the contents, taking mostly cursory glances at the pages. He hadn’t had the file for sixty seconds before he handed it back. Looking around once more, the boy slipped it into the center of his pile, exchanged a few quick words with the doctor, then shuffled off around a corner.

  It was blatant, it was careless, and though Vanhi was decently scandalized, she wasn’t surprised in the least.

  “What was that?” she demanded, stomping up next to her former advisor.

  He glanced up, lips pursed. “What was what?”

  “I saw you pay that kid for something.”

  “We shared a cab this morning. He insisted on paying then, and I insisted I compensate him now.”

  Most people would have bought that explanation outright. But Vanhi knew better. She dropped heavily into the chair next to him. “Try again.”

  He threw up his hands, melodramatic as ever. “I can’t convince you of the truth if you’re not having it.”

  This was the brilliance of Dr. Kaufman’s schemes. He played innocent so well; seemed so put upon. He was the sort of person to play the fiddle with one hand and throw a dime with the other. And people who picked up on his braggadocious nature always found a way to dismiss it as well earned. After all, “He’s done a lot for SD research.”

  Only those actually in SD research knew how overblown his claims were. His contributions had been important, but he made it sound like he’d discovered SD travel all on his own. He hadn’t. No single person could have.

  But the general public didn’t know that.

  People tended to like the “single genius” answer, no matter how inaccurate.

  Grad students who’d complained he’d put his name on research he’d had no involvement in were labeled “ungrateful.” Academic partners he didn’t get along with often had their dirty laundry publicly aired by anonymous tipsters. Projects he found no value in were sometimes abruptly unfunded.